


2 Down, 5 Across

by disfictional



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clues to Sherlock, Growing Old Together, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, No Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Retirement, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Vague Reference to TLD Morgue Scene, blowjob, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24187396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disfictional/pseuds/disfictional
Summary: It's been five years since everything, and John and Sherlock are estranged. John, lonely, takes an interest in crossword puzzles. He starts noticing that the clues have a very particular theme and style, one that reminds him of years ago.
Relationships: John Watson/Original Male Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 171





	2 Down, 5 Across

_2 Down: Lonely_

John Watson took a long, scalding sip of his earl grey, closing his eyes. He slid his hand across the thick newspaper to flatten it. The graininess of the paper felt soothing on his skin, the black pen smooth between his fingers. He looked forward to Sundays, when he could sit down with the Times crossword. He had never been one for puzzles before-- not written ones, anyway-- but in his climbing years, John found the grids to be small sources of unexpected joy. Completing a crossword puzzle felt like solving a mystery, without the melodrama ( _Don’t lie to yourself, John. You liked that part too_ , Sherlock’s ever-present voice in his head chastised). 

Today’s puzzle was called “Bylines.” From what he had answered already, he gleaned that a few of the longer across answers could be expressions like “CAUGHTBYSURPRISE” or “LEARNBYDOING”. John cleared his throat and focused on the clue. _Lonely._ It was a word he knew well. 

He was rather a lonely kind of man. His childhood had been rigid, his stiff parents not prone to displays of affection. In his teenage years, there had been social loneliness; his rugby teammates had iced him out after the goalie caught him snogging the football team captain behind the school- the _boy’s_ football team captain. Making and keeping friends had been hard for him after that. 

There had been the harsh, isolating loneliness of Afghanistan, and the crippling loss of the battlefield when he had returned. 

He lived through crushing grief after Sherlock’s fall. There was the loneliness the business with Mary had caused: bitter and sharp. The confusing pang of loss after everything in his life was uprooted left him feeling empty and so, so angry. The fake wife, fake baby, and fake death made him abandon everything that had made his life real. 

He had pushed Sherlock away, treating him like scum, hiding the intensity of his feelings under scathing words, unanswered texts, and on one horribly vivid occasion, bloody fists. In the Sherlock-less years to follow, he had done a lot of work on himself with the help of a therapist (well, a few). But right now, John had the sense that he was living out the loneliest years of his life. He was nearing his mid-fifties, and every day he wondered where he might be if he hadn’t been such a bloody idiot. Sherlock probably hated him, and definitely never wanted to see him again. They hadn’t so much as texted in five years. That, John knew now, was the loneliness of heartbreak. 

Earl barked from the kitchen. She was hungry, and she would start knocking over furniture soon if she didn’t get her breakfast. Three years earlier, in a moment of weakness, he had adopted the sweetest English springer spaniel in all of the UK and named her Earl, after his favorite kind of tea, of course. The animal shelter had informed him that she had undergone severe neglect and physical trauma with her previous owners, and together, they helped each other heal. Having to care for another living being had given him a purpose after everything in his life disintegrated. He loved her as much as he imagined he would have loved the daughter he once thought was real. 

He sighed, checking his watch. 08:05. He still had the whole day ahead of him, and half a puzzle. Six letters for _lonely_. Gloomy? Unhappy? (No, no, that was seven.) Remote? Single? SINGLE, he decided. Well, he thought, that one rubbed salt in the wound. 

The next Sunday, John strayed from his usual newsagent. 

He had met Mike Stamford for lunch at a small cafe near St. Bart’s that was far too hip and crowded for John’s taste. He usually avoided this area at all costs, bad memories and the like, but he had already cancelled on Mike four separate times now. 

Mike was the only friend from Before that John regularly kept in touch with, and their conversations were fleeting at best. It had been months since he had last seen the other doctor. It had been at least a year since he’d stepped foot near West Smithfield. John sparingly texted Greg only when the thought occurred, which it hadn’t lately. 

Without much to offer in terms of a social life, the conversation between the doctors turned quickly to work, the surgery, the classes Stamford was teaching. John was particularly interested in the newest course offering at Bart’s, Artificial Intelligence in Medicine and Imaging. “ _Definitely_ not like in our day,” John laughed.

John was just dipping a sweet potato chip in chipotle aioli when Stamford asked the question he knew had been coming. Stamford asked it every time they saw each other, as if he still held out hope for the two of them. It just made John cringe. “So, have you, uh, spoken to...Sherlock at all?” John paused mid-bite to give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Stamford retreated immediately. “Sorry, mate. I should stop asking. None of my business. Just curious, is all.” Stamford’s usually cheery face went red with embarrassment. 

John cleared his throat, recovering from hearing Sherlock’s name in casual conversation ( _My name has barely ever been in_ casual _conversation, John. Do better_ , mind-Sherlock interjected). Hearing Sherlock’s name aloud was like listening to a coworker you thought was perfectly reasonable hint to an unsavory political view- surprising in a way that makes you uncomfortable as to how to proceed. He took a sip of his too-strong coffee. “No, no, it’s...it’s fine. We haven’t. Just...haven’t heard that name in a bit.” 

Stamford nodded understandingly. He gave John a meaningful look. John fidgeted, flexing his fingers under the table. John ached to ask, _How is he? Where can I find him? How can I get him to talk to me? Does he think about me like I think about him?_

“I’d best be off. I’ve got to be back at Bart’s in fifteen,” said Stamford, putting on his jacket. He smiled across the table at John. “It’s always nice to see you, John. It’s good to see you doing well and all.” 

John nodded, giving Mike his most convincing smile. If it seemed like he was doing well, John thought, he was a better actor than he gave himself credit for. 

Wandering mindlessly out of the cafe, he didn’t notice that he had followed his old route from St. Bart’s to the nearby newsagent until his feet had carried him there. He paid for an issue of the Times, and leafed through some depressing political headlines, sports news with the latest football results, and the register before getting to the good bit: the crossword, an anonymous submission edited by David Parfitt. That was a bit odd, but the theme, “Laboratory Findings” perked him right up. 

“It’s an awfully good one this week, mate,” said the shop’s proprietor. John half-smiled, liking to figure that kind of thing out for himself, thanks. As he turned to walk toward the nearest tube station, eager to get home and settle in with a cup of tea and his puzzle, he stopped dead at the sight of a very familiar woman in a striped jumper talking animatedly into her mobile not ten yards away. 

“You just can’t ask me to do that kind of thing anymore, you know. I’m only going to say it once more: I’m not sending you mail-order body parts, Sherlock.” 

John stiffened. Molly Hooper looked different somehow; better, even. Even from five meters away, John could sense an air of confidence exuding from her that hadn’t quite been there when he’d known her well. If he’d just met her at a pub, he may have tried to buy her a drink. 

But he wasn’t in a bar, and Molly Hooper was currently in a mobile power struggle with a man he hadn’t spoken to in five years. 

God, how he envied her. John briefly fantasized about marching over there, grabbing the phone, and yelling at Sherlock about forcing Molly to do his bidding- just to start a row, to force Sherlock to fight back. There had always been such an instinctual element to fights with Sherlock that John missed. Craved, even. Like dancing, they both knew and secretly loved the moves, but indulging in it felt like a breach of an unspoken contract between them. They were liberating. Their fights had been intense and charged and complex and _real_ and _fuck_ , he ached for that again.

He could turn around right now, and Molly would never have known he was there. But he was John Watson, dammit, and he could-- would-- face her. He squared his shoulders, and with a set of his jaw, he marched forward. 

Molly jumped at the tap on her shoulder. She hated being taken by surprise. She was in her third rather heated argument of the day with Sherlock at the moment, and dammit if she needed more food than a bag of crisps for lunch. Couldn’t this person see that she was in the middle of some--

Molly’s jaw went slack. It just...couldn’t be. 

“Molly? Hello? HELLO? Did another passably attractive man just cause a circuit shortage in your brain? Or was it a daylight robbery? Ooh, that could be interesting-”

“Sherlock,” she whisper-yelled into her mobile, turning away from John. It felt wrong to say Sherlock’s name in John’s presence. She rather thought John didn’t deserve to hear it. “Shut up. Now. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to, erm, talk to someone.” 

“Oh Lord. It really is the man. Molly, I agree that the radiologic technologist is easy on the eyes, but he is beneath you by nearly every measure.”

“It’s not the radiologic technologist, you arse. It’s _John_. Hanging up now.” 

Sherlock’s shock was audible in its silence. She ended the call, and took in the enigma that was John Watson. He looked different somehow; worse. As if the last five years had aged him ten. The man had a hint of stubble, like he had simply forgotten to shave. His button-up hung loosely on him, and his trousers were being held up by his belt. She couldn’t think of a better way to describe him than that he looked...sad. She couldn’t decide if she felt vindicated on Sherlock’s behalf or if she wanted to give him a hug (possibly also on Sherlock’s behalf). 

To be honest, she had felt tossed away by John after the big rift with Sherlock. Molly had considered John a friend, once. But without Sherlock to give her and John an excuse to talk, they drifted. Molly had tried reaching out in the beginning, but John had ignored her. And after all the avoided texts, when she had dissected every interaction her and John had ever had, Molly realized that John had never been particularly friendly to her. He had _put up with_ her, sure, but when it really came down to it, the only reason John had ever interacted with Molly was Sherlock. She knew that now. 

“John Watson,” she said, by way of greeting. The name tasted odd in her mouth. 

“Molly Hooper,” he replied with a small hint of smile. 

It seemed that neither of them knew the right thing to say. Molly opened and closed her mouth a few times. John flexed his right hand. “You haven’t lost that habit, then,” Molly started.

“Erm, excuse me?” John replied defensively. He flexed his fingers again.

Molly cursed herself. For reasons completely unknown and frustrating to her, Molly’s filter had always evaporated around John. “That,” she said, pointing to his hand. “Your nervous tick.” 

John went still. “Ah.” 

Silence. Again.

Oh god, she couldn’t take this. “What brings you here? It’s been, uh, a long time.” 

John held up his paper. It was opened to the crossword page. 

This display did not answer any of her questions. In fact, it just made her more curious. Gesturing toward the bench across the street, she offered for the pair of them to sit down. John began walking there without a word. 

Molly was absolutely perplexed, as she often used to be when it came to all things John Watson. She racked her brain for topics that wouldn’t make the conversation awkward or tense. Anything Sherlock-related was off the table.

“Was that him?” John asked, and Molly felt for him. He was sitting rod straight, eyes set unwaveringly forward. 

So maybe Sherlock wasn’t off the table. 

She regarded him for a moment. John had obviously heard her speaking to Sherlock, and was looking for a way in. Molly’s loyalties were with Sherlock, and she didn’t know how much Sherlock would want John to know about his life now. She wondered if John even knew that he had moved out of London. 

“Yeah. Typical ridiculous requests,” she answered, rolling her eyes. “Do you ever talk to him?” There. Now they both had asked questions they already knew the answers to. 

John’s forward gaze faltered. “No. Not since…” 

“Yeah.” She checked the time on her mobile as an excuse to look away. She had a text from Sherlock waiting. 

_Ask him. -SH_

Molly knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from audibly sighing. 

_This data could be invaluable to me. -SH_

About 3 months ago, Molly went out for a pint (or three) with her boyfriend, Daniel (not from work _or_ through friends. Hinge). She had seen John from across the pub and urged Daniel that they go somewhere else, blaming the weak drinks. John, apparently, hadn’t caught sight of her. Seeing John Watson in a London bar had not shocked her; Molly knew John liked a drink. Rather, it was who he was sitting with that had caused her to stare. 

She had seen John very obviously chatting up another man. 

At first, she assumed that they were just good friends getting drinks. Upon closer inspection, however, John had his arm wrapped around the waist of the other, younger man, who sported curly dark brown hair and a thin frame. For a moment, Molly was transported to an alternate universe of what-could-have-been, where the man coyly whispering in John’s ear was Sherlock. She thought, perhaps, John felt it, too. Maybe that’s the entire reason he was there. In her own way, Molly completely understood. 

Poor Daniel had to hear about these strangers all the way to the next pub. 

When Molly told Sherlock, he feigned disinterest, but Molly knew him well enough to see through Sherlock’s rubbish. Throughout the next week, he had slipped in questions about the encounter into a conversation in the lab ( _What pub was it? I think I may have solved a poisoning case there_ ), on the phone ( _Did the other man have a narrow nose? There are a disproportionate amount of serial killers with narrow noses_ ), over text ( _Did John lick his lips? May need to reevaluate his use of lip balm. -SH_ ), and in the morgue ( _Did the man have a larger build than this one?_ ). 

Of course, Molly was curious about what she had seen that night. But she needed to be careful with her words. She had known John to be a very defensive man. 

“So, how are things? Are you still at Bart’s?” John asked, and Molly scrambled to put her mobile away. 

“I am, yeah. I’ve been promoted, actually. I’ve got some research projects going. Things are good.” She hated to bring up her dating life, as it was so trivial compared to the strides she had been making in her career, but she had to take her chance at getting answers. “And I’m seeing someone.” 

“Oh, well, congrats, then. On both,” John smiled. 

He was not giving her anything to work with! “What about you? Are you dating?” John stiffened. “Not that I’m interested! I mean, I’m interested, but not like, well, you know.” 

He nodded, not able to hide a chuckle. John looked surprised at the question, as if no one had asked him about his private life in a long time. She knew he had once been used to Sherlock, who never had to ask. Molly realized that was probably one of the qualities John had liked most about Sherlock. One could always count on Sherlock’s hatred of chatting about the trivialities of dating, social circles, and parties. John was also the sort of man who hated that kind of talk; he was just better at hiding his disinterest. 

“I’m not. Dating anyone, I mean. It’s just me and my dog at home.” 

So, he wasn’t dating Man From The Pub. What was he doing, then? One night stands, perhaps? Casual hookups? It certainly didn’t seem like he was lying. 

She decided to let it go- it really was none of her business, she supposed. She would relay the news to Sherlock (which was more than that mail-order-body-parts-bastard deserved), and he would have to be satisfied. For now, though, Molly just wanted to look at photos of John Watson’s adorable dog. 

His small but comfortable flat in east London was a welcome sight that afternoon. John’s social battery was depleted after the afternoon he’d had. Earl greeted him with her usual kisses, and he took her on a brisk walk around the neighborhood in return. 

It was a little warmer than usual for mid-September, and sweat was pooling on John’s forehead by the time he was unclipping Earl from her harness and refilling her water bowl. When he finally sat down with his crossword and Chinese leftovers from the night before, Earl resting dutifully by his feet, it was a welcome return to his Sunday routine. 

_Across_

_1 - Boswell was one_

This was the kind of clue he could tend to overthink. But after some internal deliberation, John scribbled SCOT into the four letter boxes.

_5 - John who wrote Appointment in Samarra_

He paused and read the clue again, not for a lack of comprehension but because he was taken aback by the familiarity of the story. He knew this answer quite well: OHARA. He had threaded the tale through his retelling of the Six Thatchers to make the lies marketable. Sherlock had said it was a “nice touch” (but of course he would, the dramatic bastard). 

In reality, it had been a lot messier than the public had been led to believe. But that was the nature of reality, he supposed. He rubbed at the scar below his eye, which had healed a bit in five years, but would never heal completely. Sometimes he made a joke about being Al Capone reincarnate. People usually laughed out of pity. He hated when they did that. 

Mary nearly killed him, and Sherlock left him. He didn’t want pity. He wanted his old life back, before everything went sour. Before he resorted to crossword puzzles to keep him entertained. 

He sped through the next across clues- PENUCHE, ECOTOURS, TSAR, ISMS. 

_38 - Airport’s apron._ 6 letters. TARMAC. 

He stopped. Today was an utter nightmare. Everything was a reminder of the man who left him. He set the crossword aside and stood up, swinging his arms back and forth in an attempt to loosen his body, shake away unsavory memories. Earl barked in offense at being disrupted from her kip. John pet her as reconciliation, but he was too keyed up now to sit back and fill in the crossword. Something was wrong. John Watson had spent years writing true crime; he didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. This had to be a message. 

He desperately wanted it to be Sherlock, but latching on to that thought was dangerous and clouded by a combination of nostalgia and a deeply seated desire to believe that Sherlock wanted him. To be his friend again. Of course, it could be Mary- Moriarty- anyone trying to get to him using his deepest pressure point. John had learned too much from being married to an undercover assassin with a target on her back to take any messages at face value. 

It also could be nothing. 

But, god, did he like imagining that Sherlock was anonymously crafting crossword clues so that he could reach him. He pictured his old friend, hair wild, dressing gown thrown over an undershirt, obsessing over the placements of black and white squares on a 21 x 21 easel grid. Or would he do them online? Did Sherlock have a crossword room in his mind palace? John wondered what five years had done to the man’s appearance. He imagined Sherlock finally allowing the grey in his hair to peek through, a pair of reading spectacles atop his nose, possibly some softness around his middle. John loved creating the image of a Sherlock so human, but it also made him ache for a time past. 

The intensity of the day was getting to him. John had been only a step away from hearing Sherlock’s voice just hours earlier. His voice, those rich tones, the pretentious vocabulary, had always _affected_ John more than he would care to admit. 

He needed a release. On a day that he hadn’t had a chance encounter with Molly Hooper, or walked by St. Bart’s, or ridiculously suspected Sherlock had been sending him coded messages through the _Times_ crossword, he would have texted George. 

Something like _Hi, plans tonight?_

George would respond about a half hour later with, _With some friends. I’ll come to yours after._

Clean, efficient, no nonsense. _See you then._ John would spend the next few hours watching crap telly, checking his watch and his phone (in that order) intermittently. At 11, John would start wondering if he should just go to bed. At 11:35pm, George would text John to buzz him into the building. John would welcome him into the flat with a glass of wine (John couldn’t let go of the pretense of romance), and they would start kissing before they finished them. Wet, sloppy kissing would morph into hurried fucking, George on his knees, face-first in the bedsheets, or on the couch. Once in the kitchen. John would take, and take, and take and it would feel deliciously wrong pounding into a younger man with wild, dark brown hair whose body he often imagined belonged to another. George didn’t mind- he once told John that he didn’t care who he was thinking about, as long as John kept fucking him like that.

So John did. When they finished, they would do a perfunctory clean-up, John would thank George for coming over, and George would be off with a small smile. Neither of them wanted nor needed anything more. George slept with other people. John just wanted an outlet. They used each other for good sex. Occasionally they went out for drinks. The arrangement worked. 

But tonight was not a George night. He was too keyed up to wait, and too preoccupied with Sherlock to think about anyone else. Surrendering to the indulgence, John reached down and undid his fly, thinking only of dirty crossword clues and a detective.

The surgery was utterly unbearable the next day.

“Sir, as I’ve said, it’s clear that you have a _cold_ , not Japanese Encephilitis. You indicated that you haven’t traveled to an area where you could have possibly been exposed.” 

“Not even Northumberland?” 

John had to fight every natural instinct not to roll his eyes, or shout, or punch this man. His patients could be _idiots_ ( _Indeed, John,_ a satisfied inner Sherlock agreed). John groaned internally. He knew it had been a mistake, letting himself jerk off to indecently sexy mental images of a frustrated Sherlock in only his dressing gown, hair wild, piles of crossword grids strewn across 221B. John had imagined him taking off his glasses and toying with them between his soft, pink, obscene lips, just a hint of tongue slipping through. Sherlock’s eyes had raked over John’s body when he entered, Sherlock dropping the grid he was working on in surprise. This Sherlock had gotten down on his knees to pick it up, and god, why was he so obvious, and- 

“No!” John forced himself back into the present moment, maybe a bit too harshly. The patient, a thirty-something with a full head of grey hair - _style choice, genetics, or stress?_ \- recoiled. 

He was tetchy, as he always was when he thought about Sherlock the night before. He had gone against his standing rule that after so much time, Sherlock was no longer allowed in his masturbatory fantasies. Last night, he decided, had been extenuating circumstances. There was only so much he could prevent when the subject was begging for attention at every turn. 

The rest of his shift did not go any better. He must have checked his watch at least three times an hour, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he hung his stethoscope on the wall and logged out of the desktop. He didn’t even bother putting his hood up to the heavy rain, having forgotten an umbrella in his rush this morning. Honestly, though, the cool rain felt liberating on his skin. The humidity of the past week had stifled the entire city, and this downpour was a release. 

John shook out rain from his hair and jacket like a dog as he descended the steps to the tube. Still sopping wet and chilled, he miserably boarded the train that would lead him back to his warm flat. He took an empty seat in the back corner and engaged in the only form of entertainment he had on his ride home: observing the people around him. Nearly everyone else in the carriage was in the same, soaked state. There was the typical work crowd, briefcases and dampened pressed suits, some children in school uniforms, an American tourist couple swiping through pictures of the day together on their iPhones. A few stops on, an unkempt woman dressed in a worn, too-large raincoat carrying a dirty rucksack got on and sat directly across the aisle. She kept glancing over at John in a way that did not feel like casual observance. He felt...monitored. He sat up a little straighter, twitching his nose in annoyance. As the train pulled up to his stop, he got up quickly, but the woman stood faster, and they collided. She blocked his way to the exit. “Excuse you,” John grimaced, at the end of his rope. He was gearing up to shove her out of the way when she handed him a slip of paper. 

“I’m s’posed to give this to you.” Her voice was raspy and harsh.

John frowned. What was Sherlock playing at? Using his homeless network to get to him? Did he even _have_ a homeless network anymore? “Who’s this from, then?”

“Can’t say.” 

John laughed, a resigned, mirthless laugh, and pushed by the woman to exit the carriage. He was letting the emotions of the last 32 hours cloud his judgment. And if he was making a scene on the tube, then so be it. “I’m not signed up for this type of thing anymore, you know. Tell Sher- whoever sent you that I’m not playing this game. I’m not!” He stepped out just as the doors began to close. Letting the swarm of rush hour passengers speed by him, he opened the piece of paper to reveal some sort of code:

 **I21D5A2A2N7** **U19N7I21K6 B11I21**

John wanted to rip up the message and leave the torn pieces on the platform, just to prove he could. Instead, he shoved the piece of paper deep inside his pocket, hoping he would forget it existed. 

That night, John’s restless sleep was plagued by the string of letters and numbers from the message dancing in his mind, contorting themselves into shapes of memories.

He was at Baker Street. Irene Adler, wrapped in Sherlock’s dressing gown, had given John the coded message. Across the table, Sherlock smiled. “Go on, then,” and suddenly Irene was leaning in to kiss John’s cheek. He _had_ to solve this. The code swirled in front of him, but none of it made sense. Airplane seats? No, no, he was muddling the memory with reality. Irene was close! Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John looked down at the table. Nothing! Just tea, crumbs of toast, the crossword...oh! Irene’s lips touched his cheek. Sherlock beamed. He had seen the answer cross John’s face. “The crossword!” John shouted, only to wake up in his flat. No Irene, no Baker Street, no Sherlock. But to his right, on his bedside table, lay the Times, open to this week’s crossword puzzle: _Laboratory Findings_. John got out of bed, turned on the light, and found the slip of paper in his jacket. He reached for his glasses and a pen, grabbed the crossword, and decided he would sit at his kitchen table until he figured this out. 

It was nearly 3am when he woke up again, pen in hand, and scribbled notes all along the margins of the crossword. A stack of old puzzles had collapsed onto the floor, and Earl was sleeping on top of them. He gave her a pat, and she sleepily rolled onto her back in an open invitation to pet her stomach.

John sighed. He had a gut feeling he had to use the _Laboratory Findings_ puzzle _,_ but he hadn’t made it very far. Despite his efforts, none of it made any sense. Sherlock would have cracked it instantly, he knew, and John cursed himself for being an idiot. He needed coffee. 

After stumbling to the cupboard, John realized he was out of his regular brew. All that was left was the instant brand he only kept on hand in case of emergency. He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaned against the cupboard, and took a deep breath. Instant it was, then. Resigned, he started the kettle and pulled out a mug. As he scooped out a bit of the chalky stuff, his eyes kept coming back to the label. An image of a knight chess piece plastered the front of the container. John thought of the code- D5, A2... like squares on a chess board. Like squares in a crossword puzzle. 

John rushed to label the top of the crossword A-U, and the sides 1-21. He checked the first pair, I21: H. The second, D5: E. A2: L. The kettle boiled. He ignored it. 

When John finally solved it, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw the paper out the window.

HELLO JOHN SH 

He imagined it exactly as Sherlock would text: Hello, John. SH. 

That glorious bastard. 

**Hello to you, too.**

The next morning, John texted Sherlock. He was done resisting; he had spent too much time thinking about the insufferable, temperamental, utterly fantastic genius in the last five years not to confront him after this puzzle. 

_John. -SH._

**I got your message.**

**__** _Obviously. -SH._

John sniffed his nose at that. Why the _hell_ would Sherlock go to all that trouble to say hello if he was just going to be an arse? 

_It’s nice to hear from you. -SH._

And now, of course, he was being nicer than John deserved. 

**Yeah, it’s been awhile.**

**__** _Indeed. -SH._

**It was clever to reach me like that.**

**__**_You were clever to have solved it._ - _SH._

**I almost didn’t.**

**__** _I knew you would. -SH._

What were they doing? It’s been five years since Sherlock stopped responding to John’s texts. But _god,_ John missed this. He couldn’t let him go this time. He studied the crossword again. 

**P15** **C12P15B11B11 L2N7A20**

Barely a minute passed. 

_Idiot. -SH._

_I miss you, too. -SH._

John sucked in a breath and failed at holding back a sob. He was still in his undershirt and pants from last night, and he felt like an utter mess as he collapsed onto his pillow, curled up around his mobile, and sobbed because Sherlock missed him, too. 

**Want to see you.**

**__** _Would you like to visit? I can send the address. -SH._

**Now?**

**__** _John, the highlight of your week is completing the crossword. What else could you possibly be doing? -SH._

_Oh, and bring the dog. -SH._

**Where am I going?**

**__** _Actually, I’ll send a car. Should be there within a half hour. -SH._

**Fine.**

John threw his mobile on the bed in favor of getting ready. He washed his face twice before realizing Sherlock would know everything that had happened in the last day- hell, probably the last five years- regardless of how clean he looked. He had absolutely no idea where he was going, so he threw on a button-down, packed a bag with Earl’s food, some toys, collar, and leash, some extra clothes for himself and an umbrella and hoped for the best. 

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb outside his flat just as the rain started to pour. He gathered his things, prepared a very eager Earl for their adventure, put on his jacket, and scanned his flat, as if he’d be returning as a different man. Part of him hoped that he would. Part of him wished he wouldn’t have to return to this flat-- he still had that deep craving for life as it was in 221B, though, he knew that life was no longer his. Part of him didn’t want to leave at all, for fear of what- or who- he would find at the other end. Sherlock scared him. He always had. But looking out the window at the grey clouds and rain pounding onto the pavement, John realized, it wasn’t Sherlock that had scared him. It was their mutual ability to destroy each other. 

They already had, and John was still desperate to see him. 

The driver was an older gentleman in an American baseball cap, in stark contrast with the rest of the luxury vehicle. The man nodded to acknowledge John’s presence, but kept quiet the entire ride. John was grateful for it. His mind was preoccupied thinking about how many ways this meeting could go. And soon, London was behind him, shrouded in grey clouds. Earl settled herself into the comfortable leather seat beside him. 

**Do you seriously live outside of London?**

**__** _A quiet life suits me these days. -SH._

Sherlock? Out of London? “Quiet life”? It seemed so wrong. Sherlock thrived on the bustle of the city. Sherlock was a painter, and London was his studio. Sherlock so deeply understood the city in a way John knew he never would. He tried to picture Sherlock living in the country- posh suit and styled hair dirtied by a garden, shined shoes muddied along a country path. John let out a low chuckle. 

About an hour and a half outside of the city, the driver interrupted John’s chain of thought. “Dr. Watson, you’ve arrived.” John could feel the car on the gravel drive before he stepped out onto it, and it felt comfortable and familiar beneath his feet. Earl leaped out of the car and started yipping excitedly, exploring the newfound space. The rain was lighter here, but still drizzling. He was struck with an odd wave of nostalgia and awe at the two-story blue cottage that stood 10 meters in front of him. An elaborate garden lined the front of the house. Even with grey skies and the days reaching late into September, the flowers looked impossibly bright. 

“We’re going to have to dry her off,” a low, familiar voice that felt like a blanket on John’s skin came from behind. John closed his eyes, having dreamt about hearing that voice for five years now. He stood tall, took a deep breath, and turned to address Sherlock. 

John gasped at the sight of him. Gone was the frazzled, chaotic, high-strung energy of the high Sherlock he had known five years ago. He looked _calm_ and _grounded_ : words John Watson never thought he would use to describe Sherlock Holmes. He was wearing a dark green knit jumper with a hole in the sleeve- fancy Sherlock Holmes with a hole in his sleeve!- and a pair of faded jeans, cuffed to the ankle. His hair, once a full, dark brown, now had plenty of grey peeking through. His hair was longer than it had been the last time John had laid eyes on him, and it reminded John of their early days. His face had a few more wrinkles, sure, but to John, he looked younger than ever. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with a smile at the sight of him. 

All John wanted to do was pull him into his arms. 

Sherlock turned away to send the driver off. John couldn’t stop staring. 

“Sherlock.” The man turned at the sound of his name, but after sending away the driver with a quick wave, he was already busy petting Earl. 

“John, she’s perfect.” The image of Sherlock crouching so deeply he was nearly sitting, fawning over his dog pulled at his chest. Was this what his life could have been? “You, on the other hand, could use a bit of grooming,” Sherlock noted, his eyes scanning up and down John’s body in his familiar way. 

John could feel something coming to the surface that he hoped would sound like a chuckle. Instead, a strange ball of noise that sounded like a deranged laugh and a sob and an agreement released itself before he could stop it. He turned away, embarrassed and wanting to run away from the entire situation. _What was he doing here?_

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his hand resting so lightly on John’s shoulder that John could have imagined it. It was the first time Sherlock had touched him in so long, and it calmed him. John desperately wanted Sherlock to wrap his arms firmly around his own waist and rest his head against John’s shoulder, but obviously, that didn’t come. “Let’s go inside. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

The inside of the house was an eclectic mix of styles. A thin entryway lined with floral wallpaper gave way to a large, surprisingly modern space, where the living area and the kitchen flowed seamlessly into each other. John recognized the mirror from 221B, as well as a few other items scattered about, but the decoration was remarkably different. Sleek marble countertops, hardwood floors, and fancy appliances were made softer by worn-in furniture, a cozy rug, and an exposed-brick fireplace with a familiar skull on the mantle, where there was already a fire burning. Earl settled herself right in front of it. 

“She’s made herself at home, then,” John smiled. 

“As she should. As you should, too. Sit, please.” Sherlock gestured to a brown leather loveseat with a shag throw on top. 

“I will, I just need to give Earl some food, first.” John lifted his packed bag and pulled out the dog food. 

“Hang on,” Sherlock walked to the kitchen and shuffled around in the cabinet for a minute before pulling out a dog bowl, easily flipping it in the air, and handing it to John. He was about to ask why Sherlock had one of these, when he read the name on the front.

“Redbeard...your dog.” 

Sherlock nodded. 

“You kept it.” John looked up from the bowl to meet Sherlock’s eyes. There was sadness there. 

“Indeed, John. Go on, then. While you feed her, I’ll make tea.” 

John filled the bowl, placed it in front of Earl, and sat down in the loveseat as she ate. Sherlock soon brought out the tea and sat across from him in the matching chair. It felt so strangely like old times. The last time John had sat across from Sherlock like this, he was monitoring Sherlock so he wouldn’t start using again. Now, John was the one who was shaking and feverish, as if he were the one with withdrawal. 

“I’ve kept a lot of things,” Sherlock said, looking into the fireplace. 

It took John a minute to realize he was talking about the Redbeard bowl. “Have you?” John asked, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. _You didn’t keep me._

“I have everything I need here. Country life has been good to me.” 

John sipped his tea, prepared just as he’s always liked it. “It certainly seems like it. The house is quite lovely.” Sherlock put his cup and saucer on the stand next to him and shifted in his chair so his jumper rode up to show a bit of his stomach, now a bit softer than John remembered. John stared, fixated by that patch of smooth skin. “Quite...lovely.” 

Sherlock looked down, then back at John, and raised an eyebrow. John snapped out of it, and he reached for anything to say. “And you...well, you look, um, good, too.” He licked his lips. 

Sherlock smiled in acknowledgement, but continued as if John hadn’t said anything. “I have everything I need here. But I admit, more recently I’ve had time to think about the life I want to have, going forward.” He fidgeted with his hands, placing them on his lap, then together under his chin, on the armrests, and finally, shifting forward in his seat, they landed on top of his knees. John also shifted forward. “After evaluating all possible scenarios, I’ve decided that my life will be considerably better with you...in it.” 

John stopped breathing. Sherlock wanted him in his life again. Sherlock wanted him, after everything. He stood, bridging the space between them, and dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. John delicately placed his hands over Sherlock’s, where they rested on Sherlock’s knees. This close, John could smell Sherlock’s expensive lavender soap mixed with the lingering hint of tobacco. He wanted to drown in it. 

“Sherlock, you know, this kind of stuff. It’s hard for me.” 

“Yes.” 

“But I think it’s important that you know, there has never been a time in my life that has not been made better by you.”

“John, that’s hardly--”

“No! No.” There must have been something in John’s tone that made Sherlock know not to continue, because he tightened his lips and nodded. “The last few years have been-- difficult. And at first, I blamed it on Mary, on the baby, on you, on the drugs. I thought that if you were out of my life, all of my problems would disappear. It should have been obvious, but it took years- years, Sherlock- to realize that I drove you away, and I _hated_ myself for it. I treated you like no human being should ever--” he turned away sharply, feeling the tears start to burn. With the smallest of movements, Sherlock turned his palm upwards to wrap around John’s and squeezed, as if to say _I’m here now, John._

He took a deep breath, and turned to face Sherlock, eyes red and glistening around the edges. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I want you in my life as long as I can have you. If you can’t tell, I’m a right _mess_ without you.” 

“That makes two of us,” Sherlock whispered, tightening his grip on John’s hand. John buried his head into Sherlock’s thigh, and after a few moments, Sherlock tentatively began to rub John’s head. In any other situation, John may have found this vulnerable position to be demeaning, but it was Sherlock, and his touch and heady scent of worn denim, lavender, and tobacco was healing. Sherlock’s hands combed through his hair rhythmically. John couldn’t remember the last time he had been touched like this- so gently, reverently- and he moaned into Sherlock’s denim. 

John froze. Sherlock’s fingers paused for a brief moment, but when he continued ( _Thank God,_ John thought), he moved his hands more deliberately. John relaxed further into the touch. 

“I’m glad you are amenable,” Sherlock said after what felt like several long minutes of nothing but the sound of the fire crackling, Earl’s snoring, and Sherlock’s fingers rustling through John’s grey hair. John’s chuckle came from deep in his throat, and suddenly, he was bursting with high-pitched laughter. Sherlock’s rumbling laugh was not far behind. 

“You’re a ridiculous man.” 

“So are you.” 

“You made me crack a code using a crossword puzzle to say hello.”

“You solved it.” 

John beamed. He couldn’t help it. 

The intensity of their conversation had lifted, and John was actually starting to feel quite sore from kneeling on the ground. Sherlock read his train of thought before he could stand. 

“I’ll prepare the bath for you. You’re clearly starting to ache in that position, and you haven’t showered in three days.” 

“Sherlock, I don’t need--” 

“And while I’m grateful for your...authentic scent, you’ll feel most comfortable after you bathe. I’ll have lunch ready by the time you come out. Come on.” Sherlock reached down to help John get to his feet. His age was really starting to show. 

Sherlock showed him up the stairs and down a hallway with Sherlock’s bedroom and a study off to the right. John couldn’t help but notice the crossword puzzle easel board inside the study, among familiar test tubes, Sherlock’s microscope, and various papers strewn across a dark wooden desk. Sherlock hurried him along to the loo, which could have been pulled right from a catalogue. Black and white vintage tile led to a luxurious clawfoot tub. John’s muscles relaxed just looking at it. 

“You’ll find a flannel and a dressing gown in the cabinet, and you’re more than welcome to use any of my bath products,” Sherlock instructed as he danced around the marble sink with ease, grabbing bubble bath and shampoo and body wash he deemed most suitable for John’s tastes. And if Sherlock leaned over to search through the lower cabinet for just a moment too long, accentuating his long legs and arse in those jeans, John pretended not to notice. What John really wanted was to push Sherlock up against the sink and kiss him senseless.

But for now, a bath in Sherlock Holmes’ cottage while the detective made him lunch downstairs sounded divine. 

John emerged 45 minutes later to an elaborate spread of cheese, meats, savoury biscuits, and fruits placed elegantly on a wooden slab. 

“You cook now, too?” John asked playfully, walking into the kitchen area and leaning against the granite-topped island. Sherlock’s eyes scanned his body, and John tightened the belt on Sherlock’s too-large dressing gown. He had cursed himself getting out of the bath for forgetting to bring his bag of extra clothes into the bathroom, but after putting on Sherlock’s luxurious dressing gown over his undershirt and pants, John was grateful for the soft fabric. Sherlock had offered it to him, after all. Earl rushed to greet her freshly-bathed human, sniffing curiously at John’s use of different soap. 

“Setting up a cheese plate is _hardly_ cooking, John. Anyone with access to Youtube can learn the art,” but even as Sherlock was speaking, he took a loaf of freshly baked sourdough smelling of rosemary out of the oven. 

“This looks delicious, Sherlock. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” 

“No trouble. I’m rather bored these days, John. Not bored in the way I used to be, I suppose, but I’ve been actively searching for ‘hobbies’,” Sherlock said the word as if it were an affront to his existence. “Not ones of the injection variety.” 

John took a seat at the island, piling a large scoop of melted brie onto a biscuit, digesting this. It wasn’t John’s place anymore to pry, but he had to know about the drugs before he was pulled any further back into Sherlock’s orbit. “You’re clean, then?” 

John expected a snarky remark or a dismissal, but neither came. “Yes.”

“You being honest?” 

“John. I haven’t touched the stuff in years. Didn’t work out so well last time,” Sherlock gave John a meaningful look. “Moving out of London has helped. My brain doesn’t need to work so fast here.” 

John took another bite of brie. He believed him. “Not much consulting work these days, then?” 

“The need is always there, but I’ve been trying to...take a step back, recently.” Sherlock took a large piece of prosciutto from the board and instead of eating it, fed it to Earl, who yipped in approval. 

“You mean...retire?” John hadn’t considered that Sherlock would ever think of giving up casework. Ten years ago, John wouldn’t have been able to separate Sherlock’s being from his work. Now, though, in his greying hair, his jeans and jumper look, and a newfound ease about him, it didn’t seem so impossible. John could actually picture Sherlock’s case-less life in the country: wearing a beekeeper suit harvesting honey, conducting experiments in the garden, baking pastries, reading classic novels. 

Sherlock studied him for a moment. “Not yet. But I can’t do it forever, John. It’s not sustainable.” He looked down, and John had a feeling this was the first time Sherlock had admitted it out loud. Sherlock had never wanted to believe that he was a captive of his human body’s needs or desires, and giving up the work was the ultimate sacrifice. 

“I’m happy for you, Sherlock. You deserve one hell of a break.” In lieu of responding, Sherlock took a large bite of bread. 

“Wahh suhm?” Sherlock held out the rosemary loaf, fresh from the oven. 

They picked at the cheese board in comfortable silence (John shoveling the food down, whereas Sherlock merely grazed), feeding Earl pieces of prosciutto and salami every few bites. When Sherlock took a bite of a strawberry, John looked on to Sherlock’s lips, transfixed. A trail of red juice leaked down his chin, and John ached to lean across the island and lick it off. 

He had always been able to bury his desire for Sherlock because he felt like he had to, for both of them, for one reason or another (timing, mostly). But seeing Sherlock so _human_ like this after so long made it nearly impossible to hide. He stared openly as Sherlock wiped his index finger down his chin to collect the strawberry juice and stick his finger in his mouth. John craved him. He wet his lips with his tongue, and Sherlock’s eyes locked on John’s mouth, and something flickered in Sherlock’s eyes. He felt electric.

“So, you say you want me in your life. Moving forward, I mean.” John was buzzing. 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but John could sense the same desperation he felt in that word.

He stood and walked around the island, meeting Sherlock on the other side. Sherlock stayed still, but his eyes followed John’s every move. “How, exactly, will this work? Do you want to meet up for coffee in London?”

“That would be amenable.” 

“What about crime-solving? Should I start my blog up again? Join you on cases?”

“Only if you’re interested.” 

“I am.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock spoke with confidence, but his flushed cheeks betrayed him. 

“What if…” John started, but he looked away before he could finish.

“What if what, John?” Sherlock’s eyes pleaded with him, and in that moment, John knew they wanted the same thing. Maybe Sherlock didn’t know how to say it with words, but he had already said it today with a silver dog bowl, hands through hair, hand-picked soaps, and rosemary bread. 

“What if I wanted...something more?” John braced against the island and, gathering his strength, looked up at Sherlock. John could feel his heartbeat through his throat, and he was genuinely afraid he might vomit on Sherlock’s (spectacularly soft, inviting) jumper if the man rejected him. 

Sherlock placed his hand on top of John’s. It felt cool on John’s bath-warmed skin. “John, you can have everything.” His voice was low, and pleading. “I’ve wanted something more for some time.” 

John swallowed. The lump in his throat loosened. He stepped closer, placing his hands on Sherlock’s waist, curling his fingers in the thick fibres of his jumper. Sherlock leaned into the touch. “I can’t do another five years without you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s hands slid down John’s forearms. “Then don’t.” His eyes darted to John’s lips, and suddenly, Sherlock was kissing him. 

And, _oh._ The relief coursed through John’s body, and he poured his entire being into the kiss. It was soft, and so warm, and in that moment John couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been kissing Sherlock Holmes. And when Sherlock’s hands slid down his own robe on John’s body and gasped, John couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t be kissing Sherlock Holmes. 

“ _God_ , Sherlock, this is…” Sherlock’s hands deftly untied the knot on the dressing gown and reached for the exposed skin under his t-shirt around his waist.

“Mm, yes,” Sherlock purred, his lips now occupied exploring John’s neck. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long, how did I never--” Sherlock’s lips cut him off. Rude. John let them. They tasted like rosemary, and Sherlock was opening them and doing something with his tongue in John’s mouth that felt glorious. John tugged at Sherlock’s hair with one hand and pulled at his jumper with the other, needing him closer.

“Want you,” Sherlock moaned, and the words went straight to John’s groin. 

“Yeah?” Sherlock studied John’s face at the question, and a glimmer of understanding crossed his own. He leaned into John's ear. 

“I want you _desperately_ , John. In any way that you’ll have me.”

John leaned his head back, groaning. He slipped his hand underneath Sherlock’s jumper to touch the smooth skin on his navel. This proved to be effective, because Sherlock’s whispers were turning into soft pants. John hung on every sound.

“Seeing you...like this is... fascinating. I want to catalogue...all your responses, memorize them.” 

At this, John stood straight, and Sherlock moved away from his ear as if fearful he had spooked John, gone too far. It wouldn’t be the first time. But John had no intentions of backing away. Instead, he held onto Sherlock’s waist and stepped into him, pushing them backwards until Sherlock was leaning back against the granite countertop, John leaning into him, pushing into the space between Sherlock’s legs. 

“Not an experiment, Sherlock.” John spoke sternly and pushed harder against Sherlock as he said it. Sherlock’s eyes widened with fear (and something else) and he opened his mouth, probably to apologize. John smiled and kissed him to show that he only meant it playfully. If he and Sherlock were going to be spending more time together, he would knowingly (and unknowingly) be a part of many experiments to come, and he was fine with it. Positively joyful about it, actually. He kissed him again to prove it. 

“You’re...not...an experiment...John,” Sherlock mumbled between kisses. “In fact, I’m likely more of an experiment for you than you are for me.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and leaned in for another kiss, but John didn’t know what to make of that. 

“Sher- Sherlock, wait-” 

Sherlock had already moved down to John’s neck, and the sensation of those lips nipping and licking that sensitive skin was extremely distracting. “Mm?” Sherlock started to rub at John’s nipples over his undershirt, and it became even harder to maintain a train of thought. But John wasn’t going to let this go. 

“Sherlock, stop,” John commanded in the best Captain Watson voice he could muster in his distracted state. Sherlock did, and John, still leaning heavily into him, steadied himself a bit and looked Sherlock straight on. “What do you mean you’re an experiment for me?” 

“It was a joke,” Sherlock sighed, but his cheeks flushed.

They both knew it wasn’t. “I don’t want you thinking you’re an experiment to me, Sherlock, because you’re not. _This_ isn’t. It’s important to me that you know that.” John reached for Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock took it, but looked away. He replied so softly it was almost a whisper. “How do you know?”

“Hey,” John’s other hand pulled Sherlock’s cheek to face him, and he looked fragile, vulnerable. “I know that I don’t want to be apart from you ever again. I mean, I _can’t_ be apart from you. Especially not now, when I know that you want me, too.” 

Sherlock’s eyes darted over John’s face, no doubt looking for something in it to question. John hoped he was giving his most earnest expression, because he meant it. Jesus, he meant it. 

“Was _George_ the experiment, then?” Sherlock drew out the name, and John instantly stepped backwards hearing it. Why the hell was Sherlock bringing up _George_ , John’s occasional hookup, of all people? In this moment, when John had been so open, so ready to finally have a conversation? His face hardened. 

“How do you know about George?” 

Sherlock pushed himself off of the counter and stood back up to his full height. He gave John a pitying look that touched a nerve. John sniffed. “Molly Hooper saw you fawning over him in a pub. I decided to do my own research.” John cringed to think about what this “research” might have been. John remembered that night- it was one of the very few times he had actually gone outside of his flat with George. He thought he had only imagined he had seen Molly. He had been quite plastered, after all. 

“George doesn’t matter, Sherlock; he won’t be bothered in the slightest when I tell him I won’t see him anymore. What I have with you- it’s different,” John pleaded, only hoping Sherlock would understand. 

“Is that what you would say about me? To the next woman who comes along? The next Mary?” Sherlock spit her name. John stepped further away, shocked to hear that name, from Sherlock’s mouth, in this context. He reflexively rubbed at the scar under his eye. Earl growled from across the room. 

“No, my God, Sherl-” 

“Did you fuck George just to prove to yourself you could’ve fucked me?” The words hit John like hot tongs on his skin. He didn’t know where to begin with the wrongness of Sherlock’s deduction. He had fucked George because he missed Sherlock; it was a cheap way to pretend he was still in his life. 

Sherlock continued without bothering to wait for an explanation, “You used to hate your attraction to me. Your attraction to a man. It’s been five years. You’re still angry at yourself. I presume that sex with George fueled that hatred; you were punishing yourself for your attraction to me. You’ve now had plenty of casual sex with the man, and you show up here, clearly keen on creating some sort of sexual connection. And I want that, too, John. But I fear you’re doing it to see if you still hate that you want me- an experiment.” 

“You done?” John flexed his fists a couple times, and remembered a time a few years ago when he would’ve wanted to use them. Now, he would work through this. He wanted Sherlock enough- _loved_ Sherlock enough- to talk through this. He stepped back into Sherlock’s space, and John saw a ripple of surprise cross the man’s face before he could hide it. “I don’t want a woman. I don’t want any other person. I want you. And I want you because I _love_ you, not for any other silly reason.” The words felt like the weight of an entire airplane being lifted from his shoulders. John needed to say them again. “I love you, Sherlock. And you got it wrong. I never hated my attraction to you because you’re a man. I hated it because I thought you’d never love me back.” 

“John.” Sherlock blinked down at him, saying the name as if he’d never said it before. 

John wanted to clear the air entirely. “I settled for George because I thought you were gone. He was a cheap replacement. But it’s you, Sherlock. It’s always been you. I love _you._ ” 

Sherlock slumped a little, reaching his arms out onto the countertop behind him to support himself. “I’m sorry, John.” John stepped forward to wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s jumper at the waist. “I- I let my emotions get the better of me. You being here has greatly escalated my emotional response.” He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, and laid his head on top of John’s, breathing in the smell of his own shampoo. “Because of course, I love you, too.” 

They stood like that for some time, in an embrace in the middle of Sherlock’s kitchen, just taking each other in, until Earl started to yip at their feet. 

“She needs to go for a walk,” John mumbled from the centre of Sherlock’s chest. 

“There’s a lovely trail at the back of the house we can use, if you’d like.” 

“I’ll get dressed properly, then let’s go.” John looked up to see Sherlock smiling goofily down at him. John kissed him because he could, grabbed his clothes bag, and paused by the stairs. “I love you, Sherlock.” He couldn’t stop saying it. 

“I love you, too, John.” 

The afternoon was filled with Earl’s walk, on which Sherlock enumerated a grand total of six thriving beehives and five poisonous plant varieties. When they returned, Sherlock started a fire and poured a glass of wine for each of them. They sipped and watched the fire on the matching brown leather recliners as Earl kipped.

“Stay over, John.” Sherlock swirled the bit of remaining wine in his glass. He looked divine in the firelight, relaxed from the wine. 

“Yeah? Okay.” He hardly had to think. He didn’t have a shift at the surgery the next day, and honestly, he didn’t want to leave this quiet haven for the bustle of London just yet. “More wine?” 

John refilled their glasses with the cabernet sauvignon. He revelled in the simplicity of sharing Sherlock’s company again. He felt like he had finally finished an enormous crossword puzzle that had been sitting on his bedside table for far too long, and now he could relax in its completeness. John put down his wine glass and crossed the fireplace to Sherlock’s chair. “May I join you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and downed the last sip in his glass. “5 letters.” 

John wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, so he straddled Sherlock’s hips and pressed his weight into him. 

It worked. Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his lips to John’s ear. “Five letters: Please.” 

John groaned. “What I want you to say next: six letters,” he emphasized the clue with a roll of his hips. Sherlock’s hands moved to John’s hips, encouraging the movement. 

“ _Yes,_ John.” Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered as John moved his hips again. 

“No.” 

“No, what?”

“I said, six letters.” 

Sherlock considered. He pulled on John’s hips, pulling them even closer to his own. John could feel Sherlock’s hardness under his jeans. “Fuck me.” 

John was getting used to the new relaxed openness about Sherlock, and he hadn’t expected him to be so...forthright. “Jesus,” John panted, feeling the blood rush to his groin. “I meant ‘Kiss me,’ genius, but the other offer also sounds...tempting.” 

Sherlock kissed him, and John could feel the intensity of it course through his body. He gave in completely. Lips gave way to tongue and teeth and Sherlock’s hands running up John’s torso and John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock fumbled with the buttons on John’s shirt and kissed the revealed skin there. “I love you so much, John,” he whispered against John’s chest, which swelled at the words. 

“I love you, too. It’s honestly dangerous how much.” 

“And here you are,” Sherlock chuckled, that deep, throaty chuckle that made John ache for him. “You have far too many clothes on, John.” 

“Yeah? Do you know how I could fix that?” Sherlock gave him a look that said _cheeky bastard,_ but he indulged John anyway. 

“I want you to take me upstairs to my bedroom, and let me watch from the bed while you take off your shirt and trousers,” Sherlock spoke as intensely as he would during a deduction, but the content was deliciously captivating. “You’ll crawl on top of me and kiss me until I need you to take my clothes off.” He rubbed John’s length over his trousers, and John _needed_ his clothes off as soon as possible. And then he was going to rip off Sherlock’s. 

He moaned into Sherlock’s neck. “And then?” 

“And then…” Sherlock swallowed. Was he getting nervous? “And then, I want to feel all of you, John. I want your cock in my hand, then my mouth.” John whimpered. 

“Fuck, Sherlock.” He was now steadily rolling his hips against Sherlock’s, appreciating the friction on his crotch. He imagined those lips around his cock and grabbed on tufts of Sherlock’s greying hair to keep himself steady. 

Sherlock was breathing heavily. “And only if you want this, John, then I’d like you to push into me,” Sherlock’s voice lowered to a whisper, “fill me up.” 

John’s groan was so loud, Earl woke up frightened from her kip. He couldn’t take any more of the talking, he wanted this _now._

With some effort, John stood from the chair. “Get up,” he ordered. Sherlock’s eyes darkened as he stood. John took his hand and led him toward the stairs, but before they could get up the first step, they were kissing messily against the wall, Sherlock pressing into John, working steadily on finishing with the buttons on John’s shirt. 

“Sherlock, I thought you wanted-“ John protested half-heartedly. 

“Changed my mind. Want you now.” John slumped against the wall in acceptance as Sherlock kneeled in front of him, working on undoing John’s belt.

“Wish you were still in my dressing gown,” Sherlock growled, fiddling with the clasps. “Too many steps now.” He finally slid the belt through the loops and pulled down John’s pants and trousers in one go. 

Sherlock’s hands came to his hips and the man just…stared. At John’s hard penis just inches from his face. A few moments too long. John could feel his cheeks reddening. “Uh, Sherlock? You okay?” 

Sherlock blinked, and John had a feeling he was coming out of his mind palace. “Where’d you go, just there?” John softened a bit, “You know you don’t have to do this if you-“ 

Sherlock pulled back the foreskin, wrapped his mouth around the head of John’s cock and sucked. Every one of his nerve endings was singing with the sensation, and John lost his train of thought completely. 

“Jesus, Sherlock.” 

“New information, John,” he answered, as if that explained everything. And because it was Sherlock, somehow, it did. 

Sherlock took him into his mouth and pleasure coursed through John’s body. John’s fingers stroked Sherlock’s curls as his head rocked back and forth. John leaned his head back in awe that this was happening. That Sherlock was here, and wanting, and fulfilling John’s years’ worth of fantasies. “Oh my god, _yes_ ,” he breathed. “You’re gorgeous, Sherlock. I love you, I love you so much. I’ve imagined this so many times, but, _ah,_ this is so, so much better.” Sherlock reached up to cup his balls, and John nearly blacked out. Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around the base of John’s cock to stroke it as his tongue licked around the head. Sherlock looked up at him, and the intensity of the eye contact as Sherlock flattened his tongue against the underside of his cock almost sent John over the edge. 

“Stop,” John heaved. Sherlock moved away and his hands instantly shifted back to John’s hips. He looked disappointed. John desperately wanted this, but he wanted to savor it. He was getting older, and he didn’t have the stamina he once had. He wasn’t sure about Sherlock, but if John came now, he would be out of commission. 

“It’s so good, Sherlock. God, it’s amazing. Incredible. But I don’t wanna come like this. I want this to last longer.” John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and the man leaned into his touch. Sherlock nodded, tugging John’s pants up as best as he could, leaving the trousers around John’s ankles, wiping his lips with his index finger and popping it into his mouth. 

“Ooh, you’re a bad man,” John grumbled, emphasizing it with a gentle tug on Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock stood, trying to regain his composure, but his hair was a glorious mess, his jeans rumpled, and there was a naughty glint in his eye.

“How do you want to come, John?” Sherlock deepened his voice and lowered his lips to John’s ear. “Do you want to come inside me?”

At that, John had to keep his knees from buckling and voice from cracking. “God, yes, but if you keep talking like that, it’s going to be over a lot quicker.” 

Sherlock kissed him. “Let’s go upstairs.” 

Sherlock’s room in the cottage looked shockingly like his room in 221B: same periodic table poster, same dresser, same simplicity. John felt like he had been transported back in time. The only things that were different were the bed frame, one black-and-white wallpapered wall covered in small designs of atomic structures, and the luxe shag carpet on top of old hardwood floors. And when John dug his toes into the carpet as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s jeans, he was thankful for the addition. 

Sherlock had been so confident downstairs, but some of that turned into palpable nervousness when they entered his bedroom. “It’s okay,” John assured, and kissed him gently. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with. It’s just me, Sherlock.” 

Once John had carefully undressed Sherlock down to his pants, he maneuvered him onto the bed and climbed on top of him. John couldn’t stop touching him, running his hands all over Sherlock’s chest, proving to his doubtful logical mind that Sherlock really was here. After the fast-paced intensity of their interaction downstairs, John was grateful they could take time just to explore each other’s bodies. John reached down to rub Sherlock’s length over his pants. 

“ _Oh_ , yes, John. ‘S nice.” John chuckled, and grabbed the elastic on the waistband, silently asking Sherlock’s permission. He nodded. “It’s not ‘just you,’ you know,” he said as John pulled Sherlock’s pants down his legs. Once they were off, Sherlock wordlessly reached inside his nightstand and produced a bottle of lube. 

John took it, rubbed some of the liquid onto his hands, started to stroke. Sherlock sighed at the touch, as if he had taken a puff of a cigarette after months of abstaining. John loved seeing the man he often remembered as the most chaotic he had ever met fully relax into his touch like this. He felt himself getting harder again. “What do you mean, it’s not ‘just me’?” 

“‘Just’, is a, _oh yes like that,_ unacceptable term, _ahh,_ when it comes to John Watson.” 

“Mm,” John sped up, and Sherlock began thrusting in earnest into his palm. 

“God, John, I mean it. You’re so _fucking_ important.” John reached for the lube again, coating his fingers. Sherlock was lying there, breathless and rosy-cheeked, and John wanted nothing more than to kiss him. So he did. 

He slid a finger underneath Sherlock, who tilted his hips encouragingly. He slid one, then two fingers inside, gasping at the tight heat. He moved them in circles, stretching him. Sherlock moaned, clutching at John’s hair. 

“Oh my _god_ , John, yes, you’re going to feel so good inside me.” Sherlock reached under the elastic of John’s pants and stroked him back to full hardness.

“You really want me inside you?” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Make a deduction.”

John smiled. “Arse.” 

“That is the general idea, yes,” Sherlock drawled, and John reached a finger to the prostate to shut him up. Heat pooled in John’s belly at Sherlock’s reaction, his mouth open, eyes closed, body arched. 

John slid his fingers out and took off his pants. Sherlock was so hard, it was quite distracting, but he was still thinking enough to ask, “Condom?” Sherlock produced a condom wrapper from the nightstand. John raised his eyebrows. “John, when I knew you were coming here, I considered that this was a...distinct possibility.” 

John nodded, chuckling. “Can always count on Sherlock Holmes to be prepared.” He reached out to take it, but Sherlock stopped him. “Let me.” 

John must have been smiling goofily as Sherlock rolled on the condom and stroked him with lube, because Sherlock blushed. “What, John?”

“I just...can’t believe we’re doing this. After so long.” 

Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, and it became heated quickly. John thought about what those lips had done to him downstairs, and his hips jerked, needing the friction. Their cocks rubbed together, and with a bit of time, John probably could’ve come from that alone. 

“Do it, John,” Sherlock pleaded, and John obliged. With a bit of maneuvering, Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s hips, and John- as slowly and carefully as he could manage- pushed inside. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ Sherlock,” The combined sensations of the tightness around his cock, Sherlock breathy pants, and Sherlock’s hands running all over his body gave him a rush. “You’re perfect, love.” He experimentally moved his hips, rocking further into Sherlock. 

“‘eel so good, John...you can do it harder,” Sherlock bit his lip, and John couldn’t hold back. With one, two, three thrusts he could already feel himself getting close. He had waited years for this, and he couldn’t hold out any longer. 

“Want you to come inside me, John, come on, you’re so close,” Sherlock encouraged. “That’s it, John, _ah,_ you’re so good, and _fuck,_ strong.” 

“Oh god, Sherlock, I’m gonna come.” John’s orgasm hit him hard, and he pumped into Sherlock a delicious, blissful couple of times before slumping against him, totally spent. 

He gently pulled out, sensitive of the fact that Sherlock hadn’t come yet. Sherlock kissed him, still in the throes of arousal. “Touch me, John.” And John did, using quick, efficient strokes. 

“You’re so brilliant, gorgeous, talented, lovely. Sherlock, I am the luckiest man alive to be able to fuck you like this.”

Sherlock grabbed tight onto John’s chest. “I’m so close, John.” 

John so wanted to see Sherlock give into pleasure. “Come for me, Sherlock,” John pleaded, and with that, Sherlock did. 

About an hour later, after cleaning themselves and laying with each other, kissing lazily, basking in the after-glow of powerful orgasms, John gave into his stomach and suggested they make something for dinner. 

John fumbled in the kitchen making pasta and a salad, while Sherlock expertly threw together a savory tomato sauce worthy of an Italian restaurant. Every so often, they would bump against each other by the stove, and John relished in being able to reach out to the small of Sherlock’s back, or the crook of his hip, or the swell of his arse. By the time dinner was ready, John guessed that Sherlock had purposely bumped into John twenty-two different times. 

They had their dinner with more wine, and more kissing, and afterwards, they took Earl on an evening walk. 

“It’s lovely here,” John said, relaxingly holding on to Earl’s leash in one hand, and Sherlock’s in the other. 

“You could stay here, you know.” Sherlock was trying to be nonchalant, and failing.

John paused, but kept in step with Sherlock and Earl. “Do you want me to?” 

“Of course, John. I know it would be quite a change, and you’d have to take some time to get your affairs in order, but I think we could find a way to make it comfort-” 

“Yes,” said John. He’d have to give his notice to the surgery, but otherwise, there wasn’t much keeping him in London anymore. Earl would love the space, and, well, John would love the company. 

“-able. Wait, really?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. 

“Really, Sherlock. I want to be wherever you are. I’ve had enough of missing you.” John squeezed his hand. 

Sherlock beamed. “I love you, John.” He kissed him on the cheek to prove it. Sherlock lowered his voice, despite no one being around to hear them. “When we get back to the house, you can do a crossword puzzle, and you can fuck me again when you finish.”

John laughed at the ridiculous, spectacular life he had agreed to. “Challenge accepted.” 


End file.
